Chapter 1

Ben Addison was sweating. Like a pig.

And it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

In the past three hours, Ben had read the current issues of the Washington Post, The New York Times, Law Week and the Legal Times.
Last night, before he went to bed, he committed to memory every major
Supreme Court case from the previous session. He also made a list of
every Supreme Court opinion Justice Mason Hollis had ever written, and,
to be safe, he re-read Hollis’s biography. No matter what the subject,
Ben was convinced he would be prepared for any topic of conversation
Justice Hollis might raise. In his briefcase, he had packed two legal
pads, four pens, two pencils, a pocket legal dictionary, a pocket
thesaurus, and a turkey sandwich. He had heard that Supreme Court clerks
typically work straight through lunch. Without question, Ben Addison
was ready.

But he was still sweating. Like a pig.

As he stood outside the Supreme Court, a half hour early for his
first day on the job, Ben was mesmerized by the gleaming white edifice
that was home to the nation’s highest court. This is it, he thought,
taking a deep breath. It’s finally here. Running his hand through his
brand-new haircut, Ben climbed the smooth marble stairs. He counted each
step, in case Justice Hollis was curious how many stairs there were.
Forty-four, he said to himself, filing the information.

When Ben entered the front doors of the building, he was stopped by a security guard who sat next to a metal detector.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m Ben Addison. I’m here to clerk.”

The guard picked up his clipboard and found Ben’s name. “Orientation doesn’t start for another half-hour.”

“I like to be early,” Ben smiled.

“Right.” The guard rolled his eyes. “Go straight down the hall and make your first left. It’s the first door on your right.”

Following the guard’s directions, Ben walked through the Great Hall.
Lined with marble busts of past Chief Justices, the stark white hall was
as impressive as Ben had remembered. A sly smile lifted his cheeks as
he passed each sculpture. “Hello, Supreme Court,” he whispered to
himself. “Hello, Ben,” he answered.

When Ben reached his destination, he pulled open the large wooden
door. Stepping inside, he expected to see an empty room. Instead, he saw
eight other law clerks. “Brown-nosers,” Ben muttered to himself as he
walked toward the only empty chair in the room.

As inconspicuously as possible, Ben sized up his new colleagues. He
recognized three of the eight clerks. On his far right was a
well-dressed man with stylish, tortoise-rimmed glasses who used to be
the articles editor of the Stanford Law Review. To his left sat a tall
black woman who was the former editor-in-chief of the Harvard Law
Review. Ben had met both of them at a national Law Review conference at
Yale. As Ben recalled, the man with the glasses was a former reporter
for the Los Angeles Times, while the woman used to be an Old Masters
expert for Sotheby’s. Angela was her name. Angela P-something. Finally,
seated next to Ben was Joel Westman, a fellow classmate from Yale Law. A
political analyst, Joel had spent his pre-law school years as a White
House speechwriter. Nice resumes, Ben thought to himself. Struggling to
appear casual, he smiled and gave friendly nods to all three clerks. One
by one, they nodded back.

Ben nervously tapped his foot against the plush carpet as he waited
for orientation to begin. Don’t worry, he told himself. It’ll be fine.
You’re as smart as anyone else. But as well-traveled? As well-heeled?
That wasn’t the point. Remember your lucky underwear, he reassured
himself. Ben had bought the now-fraying pair of red boxer shorts when he
was a freshman at Columbia. He had worn them on the first day of every
class, to every midterm, and on every important date. During finals, if
he had exams on three consecutive days, the boxers would stay on for all
of them. He had worn them throughout his three years at Yale and to
every clerkship interview. Today’s the day, he decided as his foot
stopped tapping, that the lucky underwear comes through in the sacred
halls of the Supreme Court.

Eventually, a middle-aged man in a gray, pin-striped suit walked into
the room. Carrying a stack of manila envelopes, he approached the
podium and scanned the room to count heads. “I’m Reed Hughes,” he said,
grabbing the sides of the podium in a solid grip. “As the head of the
Clerk’s Office, I’d like to officially welcome you to the Supreme Court
of the United States. At the risk of repeating information you’re
already familiar with, I thought it would be appropriate to tell you a
little bit about what your next year here at the Court is going to be
like.”

Within seconds, four clerks pulled out their notebooks, pens poised for action.

Pathetic, Ben thought, fighting the urge to take out his own notebook.

“As you know, each Justice is permitted to hire two clerks to assist
in the preparation of decisions,” Hughes explained. “The nine of you
starting today will join the other nine, your co-clerks, who started one
month ago on July first. I realize that all eighteen of you have worked
extremely hard to get where you are today. For most of your lives,
you’ve been running a never-ending race to succeed. Let me tell you
something I hope you’ll take seriously. The race is over. You’ve won.
You are law clerks of the Supreme Court of the United States.”

“Did you get that down?” Ben whispered to Joel. “We’re the clerks.”

Joel shot Ben a look. “No one likes a smart-ass, Addison.”

“The eighteen of you represent the best and the brightest of the
legal community,” Hughes continued. “After screening thousands of
applications from the country’s top law schools, the Justices of this
Court selected you. What does that mean? It means your lives are forever
changed. Recruiters will offer you jobs, headhunters will take you out
to expensive dinners, and potential employers will do everything in
their power to hire you. You are members of the country’s most elite
fraternity. The current Secretary of State was a Supreme Court clerk. So
was the Secretary of Defense. Three of our nine Supreme Court Justices
were former Supreme Court clerks, which means that someone in this room
has a pretty good shot at becoming a Supreme Court Justice. From this
moment on, you are the hottest property on the board. You’re Boardwalk
and Park Place. And that means you have power.”

Sitting back in his seat, Ben Addison was no longer sweating.

Hughes scanned his captivated audience. “Why am I telling you this?
It’s not so you can impress your friends. And it’s certainly not to
boost your ego. After dealing with clerks year after year, I know none
of you has an ego problem. My goal is to prepare you for the
responsibility you’re about to encounter.

“This is an important job—probably more important than any job you’ll
ever have. For over two hundred years, the Supreme Court has steered
our country through its greatest controversies. Congress may pass the
laws, and the President may sign the laws, but it’s the Supreme Court
that decides the law. And starting today, that power is yours. Alongside
the Justices, you will draft decisions that change lives. Your input
will constantly be sought, and your ideas will certainly be implemented.
In many instances, the Justices will rely entirely on your analysis.
They’ll base their opinions on your research. That means you affect what
they see and what they know. There are nine Justices on this Court. But
your influence, the power that you hold, makes you the tenth Justice.”

Hughes paused, carefully adjusting his glasses. “You are now charged
with great responsibility. You must exercise it wisely. With that said, I
know you’ll take this commitment extremely seriously. If you have the
right attitude, our clerkship program can change your life. Now, are
there any questions?”

Not a single hand went up.

“Fine,” Hughes said, picking up his stack of manila envelopes. “Then
we can get you to your offices.” As he distributed the envelopes, he
explained, “Take the one with your name on it and pass the rest on. The
envelopes contain your security card and your Court password. The card
will let you into any Court entrance, while the password will get you on
to your computer. Your secretary will show you how to log on. Any
questions?” Again, not a single hand. “Good,” Hughes said. “Then feel
free to go to your office. The number is written on the front of the
envelope.” As the room emptied, Hughes called out, “If you have any
questions, feel free to call me.”

The last one to leave the room, Ben headed for his office, the only
one on the second floor. He had met Justice Hollis’s former clerks there
during his interview last year. Weaving his way toward the front
entrance of the Court, he raced toward the elevator. The elevator
operator was an elderly woman with dyed, jet black hair. Wearing a Court
uniform that was too tight for her large frame, she worked a jigsaw
puzzle on a small table.

“Second floor, please,” Ben said when he reached the woman. When she
didn’t respond, Ben added, “Ma’am, I’m trying to get upstairs. Can you
please help…”

“Don’t get in an uproar,” she drawled, without looking up. “I’ll be
right with you.” After finding a place for the puzzle piece in her hand,
she finally looked up at Ben. “Okay, now, who’re you here to see?”

“I don’t care who you are, just tell me what floor you want to go to,” she said, walking into the elevator.

“Second,” Ben said, clenching his jaw to avoid losing patience. When
they reached the second floor, Ben stepped off the elevator and walked
down the hallway, looking for the room number that was written on his
envelope. “Nice to see you, Justice Hollis,” he practiced as he walked.
“Hi, Justice Hollis, nice to see you. How’s everything, Justice Hollis?
Nice robe, Justice Hollis—it fits great. Can I kiss your butt some more,
Justice Hollis?” Finally, he saw room 2143. Outside the large, ornate
mahogany doors, Ben wiped his hand on his slacks, hoping for a dry
handshake. Grabbing the brass knob, he opened the door and stepped
inside.

“I guess you’re Ben.” A woman in her late-twenties peered over the
newspaper she was reading. “Sorry you wasted the nice suit on me.”
Dressed in khaki shorts and a forest green T-shirt, the woman tossed
aside the paper and approached Ben, extending her hand. “Nice to meet
you. I’m Lisa, your co-clerk for the year. I hope we don’t hate each
other, because we’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together.”

“Is the Justice…”

“Let me show you our office,” Lisa interrupted, pulling him into the
room. “This is just the reception area. Nancy’s out today, but she
usually sits here. She’s Hollis’s secretary.”

Lisa was petite with an athletic build, compact but elegant. A tiny
nose balanced out thin lips and blue eyes. Brushing her hair behind her
ear, she opened the door to a smaller room. “Here’s our office. Pretty
crappy, huh?”

“Unbelievable,” Ben said, standing in the doorway. The office wasn’t
large, and it was barely decorated, but the intricate dark-wood paneling
that covered the walls gave it an instant sense of history. On the
right-hand side of the office were built-in bookcases, which housed Ben
and Lisa’s personal library. Stocked with volumes of cases, treatises,
and law journals, the room reminded Ben of the libraries that
millionaires have in cheesy movies.

On the back wall hung the room’s only picture—a photograph of the
current Justices. Taken when a new Justice was appointed to the Court,
the official photograph was always posed the same way: five Justices
seated and four Justices standing. The Chief Justice sat in the middle,
while everyone else was arranged according to their seniority on the
Court. The oldest Justice sat on the far left; the newest Justice stood
on the far right. Although the photo was only six months old, the
Justices’ identical black robes and matching stoic stares made the
current portrait almost indistinguishable from the dozens taken in years
past.

Arranged atop the navy and gold carpet were two antique wooden desks
facing each other, two computers, a wall of file cabinets, a paper
shredder, and a plush but well worn scarlet sofa. Both desks were
already submerged under a mountain of paper. “From what I can tell, the
desks are from the early colonial period,” Lisa explained. “They
might’ve been used by some old Justices. Either that, or they’re
replicas from someone’s garage. What the hell do I know about antiques?”

As he followed her into the cramped, but sophisticated office, Ben noticed Lisa was barefoot.

“I guess the Justice isn’t coming in today?” Ben asked, pushing aside
some papers and putting his briefcase down on one of the desks.

“That’s right. I’m sorry, I was supposed to call you last night. Most
of the Justices take off for the summer. Hollis won’t be back for
another two weeks, so it’s as casual as you want.” Lisa leaned on Ben’s
desk. “So, what do you think?”

Surveying the room, Ben said, “The sofa looks comfortable.”

“It’s average at best. But it’s more comfortable than these old
chairs.” Darting to the side of one of the gray metal file cabinets,
Lisa said, “This, however, is the best part of the office. Check it
out.”

Pulling the cabinet away from the wall to get a better view, Ben saw
eighteen signatures written in black marker. “So these are Hollis’s old
clerks?” he asked, reading through the names that covered half of the
cabinet.

“No, they’re the original Mouseketeers,” Lisa said. “Of course they’re the old clerks.”

“When do we sign?”

“No time like the present,” Lisa said, pulling a black marker from her back pocket.

“Aren’t we eager?” Ben laughed.

“Hey, you’re lucky I waited for you.” With a flourish, Lisa wrote her
name on the side of the cabinet. When she was done, Ben signed just
below and pushed the file cabinet back against the wall. “I guess you
started in July?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lisa said. “I wish I could’ve traveled more.”

“That’s where I’ve been,” Ben said. “I just got back from Europe two nights ago.”

“Bully for you,” Lisa said as she flopped down on the sofa. “So give
me your vital stats—where you’re from, where you went to school,
hobbies, aspirations, all the juicy stuff.”

Ben laughed. “And everyone said my co-clerk would be a stiff,” he
said, taking off his jacket. He had an oval face and a
less-than-impressive jaw, but Ben was still considered handsome, with
intense deep-green eyes and light-brown hair that fell onto his
forehead. Rolling up his sleeves, he said, “I’m from Newton,
Massachusetts; I went to Columbia for undergrad and Yale for law school;
last year I clerked for Justice Stanley on the D.C. Circuit; and I
eventually want to be a prosecutor.”

“Are you always this nosy?” Ben asked as he hopped onto the corner of his desk.

“Hey, we’re going to be living in this room for the next twelve
months. We better start somewhere. Now are you going to answer or not?”

“My mother is an executive for a computer company in Boston. She’s
the aggressive, street-smart power-mom who grew up in Brooklyn. My dad
writes a liberal op-ed column for The Boston Globe. They both went to
the University of Michigan and met in a sociology class. Their first
conversation was a fight: my father went crazy when he heard my mom say
that salary level had a direct correlation with intelligence.”

“All right. Controversy!” Lisa said, sitting up straight.

“They get along really well, but we can’t discuss politics in the house.”

“So where do you fall politically?”

“I guess I’m somewhere between moderate and liberal,” Ben said,
illustrating his point with his hands. “I’m the product of a bi-partisan
marriage.”

“Any girlfriends?” Lisa asked.

“No, I think my dad’s pretty much narrowed it down to my mom.”

“Funny,” Lisa said.

“I live with my three best friends from high school,” Ben said, sitting on his hands.

“You ever been in love?”

“You ever been called intrusive?”

“Just answer the question,” Lisa said.

“Only once, though I’m not sure I can call it love. After law school,
I took a two month trip around the world—Europe and Asia, Bangkok and
Bali, Spain and Switzerland, everything I could see.”

“Nope. She was a marketing consultant from Rhode Island. She was
starting her travels in Spain, and I was at the end of my trip. We met
in Salamanca, took a weekend trip to that beautiful little island,
Majorca, and parted ways five days after we met.”

“Please, you’re breaking my heart,” Lisa moaned. “And let me guess,
you lost her address, could never find her again, and to this day, your
heart aches for her.”

“Actually, on my last day there, she told me she was married, and
that she had a great time revisiting the single life. Apparently, her
husband was flying in the next day.”

Pausing a moment, Lisa finally said, “Is that story bullshit?”

“Not a bit.”

“Wasn’t she wearing a wedding ring?”

“Not when we were together.”

“Well, then,” Lisa said, “it’s a good story. But it definitely wasn’t love.”

“I never said it was,” Ben said with a smile. “How about you? What’s your story? Just the juicy stuff.”

Lisa kicked her feet up on the red sofa. “I’m from Los Angeles, and I
hate it there. I think it’s the toilet of the great Western restroom. I
went to Stanford undergrad and Stanford Law only because I enjoy being
near my family…”

“Boorrrrrrrring!” Ben sang.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Lisa said. “My dad is originally
from L.A.; my mom’s from Memphis. They met, and I swear this is true,
at an Elvis convention in Las Vegas. They collect Elvis
everything—plates, towels, napkin holders, we even have an Elvis Pez
dispenser.”

“They have Elvis Pez heads?”

“Some lunatic collector in Alabama put sideburns on a Fred Flintstone
Pez, filed down the nose, and painted on sunglasses. My parents went
nuts and paid two hundred bucks for it. Don’t ask; they’re total
freaks.”

“I highly recommend it. Being taunted throughout childhood is great for your self-esteem.”

“Let me ask you this,” Ben said, “do you twirl spaghetti?” Lisa
scrunched her eyebrows confused. “I think there are two kinds of people
in this world,” Ben explained, “people who twirl their spaghetti on
their fork to make manageable bites, and those who slurp it up, getting
it all over themselves. Which are you?”

“I slurp,” Lisa said with a smile. “And when I was little, I didn’t
eat anything white, so my mom had to dye my milk and my eggs with food
coloring.”

“What?” Ben asked, laughing.

“I’m serious. I used to hate the color white, so she used to make my milk purple and my eggs red. It was tons of fun.”

“You used to cut the hair off your Barbie dolls, didn’t you?”

“As soon as I pulled them out of the box,” Lisa said proudly. “The little bitches asked for it.”

“Oh, I can see it now,” Ben said, laughing. “We’re gonna get along great.”

“You got it,” Ben said, continuing toward his house. Passing the worn
but cozy brownstones that lined almost every block of his neighborhood,
Ben watched the legion of young professionals rush home to dinner down
Dupont Circle’s tree-lined streets. Almost home, Ben inhaled deeply,
indulging in the whiff of home cooking that always flowed from the
red-brick house on the corner of his block. Ben’s own house was a
narrow, uninspired brownstone with a faded beige awning and a
forty-eight-starred American flag. Although it was August, the front
door was still covered with Halloween decorations. Ben’s roommate, Ober,
was quite proud of his decorating and had refused to take them down
before they got another year’s use out of them. When Ben finally walked
through the door, Ober and Nathan were cooking dinner. “How was it?”
Ober asked. “Did you sue anybody?”

“It was great,” Ben said, dropping his briefcase so he could undo his
tie. “The Justice is away for the next two weeks, so my co-clerk and I
just worked through some introductory stuff.”

“Short hair and straightforward?” Ober scoffed. “And you think she’s not a lesbo?”

“She did offer to fix my car today,” Ben added.

“See,” Ober said, pointing to Ben. “She just met him and she’s already strapping on the toolbelt.”

Ignoring his roommate, Ben opened the refrigerator. “What’re you guys making?”

“Anita Bryant is boiling the pasta, and I’m making my stinking garlic
sauce,” said Nathan, who was still wearing his tie even though he had
been home for a half-hour. Military in his posture, Nathan’s square
shoulders didn’t budge as he moved the large pot of spaghetti to the
back burner of the stove. “Throw some more pasta in—there’s only twenty
boxes in the cabinet.” Carefully, he moved his sauce pan to the front
burner. “So tell us how it was? What’d you do all day?”

“Until the Court officially opens, we spend most of our day writing
memos for cert petitions,” Ben explained. Looking to make sure his
friends were still interested in the explanation, he continued, “Every
day, the Court is flooded with petitions seeking certiorari, or ‘cert.’
When four Justices grant cert, it means the Court will hear the case. To
save time, we read through the cert petitions, put them into a standard
memo format, and recommend whether the Justice should grant or deny
cert.”

“So depending on how you write your memo, you can really affect whether the Court decides to hear a case,” Nathan reasoned.

“You can say that, but I think that might be overstating our power,”
Ben said, dipping his finger into the sauce for a quick taste. “Every
other Chamber also gets to see the memo, so you’re kept in check by
that. So let’s say an important case comes through that would really
limit abortion rights. If I slant the memo and recommend that Justice
Hollis deny cert, all the conservative Justices would go screaming to
Hollis, and I’d look like a fool.”

“But I’m sure on a marginal case, no one will really
notice—especially if you’re the only one that reads the original
petition,” Nathan said.

“I don’t know,” Ben said, shaking his head and leaning against the
counter. “I think your Napoleonic side is showing tonight. This is the
Supreme Court. There’s a fierce code of ethics that goes along with it.”

“I still can’t believe you’re clerking for the Supreme Court,” Ober
said as he peeled garlic over the sink. “The Supreme-fucking Court! I’m
answering phones, and you’re hanging out at the Supreme Court.”

“I guess you didn’t get your promotion,” Ben said.

“They completely dicked me over,” Ober said quietly. With two
distinct dimples that punctuated his pale cheeks and light freckles that
dotted his nose, Ober was the only one of Ben’s roommates who still
looked like he was in college. “The whole reason I went to Senator
Stevens’s office was because they said I’d only answer phones for a few
weeks. That was five months ago.”

“Did you confront them?” Ben asked.

“I tried everything you said,” Ober explained. “I just can’t be as aggressive as you are.”

“Did you at least threaten to quit?” Ben asked.

“I kinda hinted at it.”

“Hinted at it?” Ben asked. “What’d they say?”

“They said they’re sorry to hold me up, but they’re gearing up for an
election year. Plus, there are at least a hundred people who would take
the job in a heartbeat. I think I might have to urinate on the
personnel manager’s desk.”

“Now that’s a good idea,” Nathan said. “Urination is a solid response
for a twenty-eight year-old. I’ve always heard it’s the best path to a
promotion.”

“You have to be more forceful,” Ben said. “You have to make them think losing you would be the end of the world.”

“And how do I do that?”

“You have to present the total package,” Ben explained. Noticing
Ober’s pale white oxford shirt, he added, “And you have to dress the
part. I told you before—don’t wear that shirt. With your freckles and
that blond hair, you look like a total kid.”

“Then what am I supposed…”

“Put this on.” Taking off his jacket, Ben handed it to Ober. When
Ober obliged, Ben continued, “That fits you pretty well. I want you to
wear my suit and tie. It’s a good make-an-impression suit. Tomorrow
morning, you’ll go back into work and ask again.”

“I can’t ask again,” Ober said.

“Maybe you can write them a letter,” Nathan suggested to Ober. “That way you don’t have to do it face-to-face.”

“Absolutely,” Ben said. “If you want, I’ll draft it with you. Between the three of us, you’ll have a new job in no time.”

“I don’t know,” Ober said. Taking off the jacket, he handed it back to Ben. “Maybe we should just forget about it.”

“Oh my God, I almost forgot! I’ll be right back.” Ober ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“We’ve really got to help him,” Ben said.

“I know,” Nathan said. “Just let him tell his story—it’ll put him in a good mood.”

“Let me guess: does it have anything to do with the lottery?”

“P.T. Barnum would’ve loved him like a son.”

“How can he be so addicted?”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” Nathan said. “You were in Europe
for six weeks. Did you really expect the world to change while you were
gone? Some things are immutable.”

“What took you so long?” Ben asked when Ober returned.

“You’ll see,” Ober began, his hands hidden behind his back. “So there
I am, walking home from work in a pissy mood. Suddenly, I see a new
poster in the window of Paul’s Grocery: ‘We Got Lottery!'”

“Grammar is everything at Paul’s,” Nathan interrupted.

Undeterred, Ober continued, “First I bought a scratch-off. I scratch
it and I win a dollar, so I buy another ticket. Then I win two dollars!”
his voice began to race. “Now I know I can’t lose. So I get two more
tickets and I lose on one and win another dollar on the second.”

“This is where normal people stop,” Nathan interrupted.

“So I get this last ticket!” Ober continued. “And I scratch it off,
and I win three bucks, which I use to buy Snickers bars for all of us!”
From behind his back, he threw Snickers at Ben and Nathan.

“Unreal,” Nathan said as he opened his candy. “Do you realize that
you jumped through every hoop that the lottery commission set up for
you?”

“Who cares?” Ober asked. He swallowed a huge piece of his candy bar.
“I haven’t had a Snickers in months. I figured it’d be a nice way to
celebrate Ben’s first day of work.”

* * *

A half-hour later, the three friends were seated at the kitchen
table. “Honeys, I’m home!” Eric announced as he kicked open the front
door.

“Can he have worse timing?” Nathan asked. As Nathan put down his fork, Ben and Ober walked toward the living room.

“The good son has returned!” Eric announced as soon as he saw Ben.

“It’s about time,” Ben said. “I thought you ran away.”

With a half-eaten sandwich in hand, Eric embraced his roommate.
Wearing an unironed button-down and creased khakis, Eric was the
sloppiest of the roommates. His thick black hair was never combed, and
his face was rarely shaven. The darkness of his light beard was
heightened by his bushy black eyebrows. Only a few millimeters from
touching, they created the perception of a constantly furrowed brow.
“Sorry about that,” Eric said. “I’ve had a deadline every night this
week.”

“Every night?” Ben asked, confused. “For a monthly?”

“He doesn’t know about your job,” Nathan said, walking into the living room. “Remember? He hasn’t been here for six weeks.”

“No more Washington Life magazine?” Ben asked.

“No sir,” Eric said, scratching his head with vigorous pride. “Just
when I thought I was going to spend the rest of my journalistic career
covering local antique shows and the best new restaurants, I get a call
from the Washington Herald. They had a staff writer opening in the
political bureau. I started two weeks ago.”

“You’re working for a bunch of right-wingers?” Ben asked.

“Hey, it’s may be this city’s secondary paper, but it’s got circulation of 80,000, and they’re all mine!”

“That’s fantastic,” Ben said, slapping his friend on the back.

“And by the way,” Eric said to Ober, “guess what they’re putting on the crossword page?”

“Don’t toy with me … a word jumble?” Ober said, grabbing Eric by the front of his shirt.

“WORD JUMBLE!” Eric screamed. “Starting next month!”

“WORD JUMBLE!” Ober repeated.

“JUM-BLE! JUM-BLE! JUM-BLE!” the two friends began to chant.

“Ah, what entertains the ignorant,” Nathan said, putting his arm around Ben’s shoulder.

“I have to admit, I really missed this,” Ben said.

“They don’t have simpletons in Europe anymore?” Nathan asked.

“Funny,” Ben said as he turned back to his jumble-obsessed roommates. “Hey, wonder twins, how about getting back to dinner?”

“I can’t,” Eric said. Taking another bite of his sandwich, he explained, “This is dinner for me. Tomorrow’s edition beckons.”

* * *

Later that evening, Nathan walked into Ben’s room, which was arguably
the best decorated room in the house. With an antique oak desk, oak
four-poster bed and oak bookcase, Ben was the only one of the four
roommates to actually care about matching anything. For a period, Nathan
had thought about working on his room, but he reconsidered when he
realized he was just doing it because Ben had done it. Three
professionally framed black and white pictures hung on the wall over
Ben’s bed: one of a half-completed Washington Monument, one of a
half-completed Eiffel Tower, and one of a half-completed Statue of
Liberty. Ben was pack-rat when it came to memorabilia. On his bookshelf
were, among other things, the keys to his first car, a personalized
beltbuckle his grandfather had given him when he was nine years old, the
hairnet Ober used to wear when he worked at Burger Heaven, the hideous
tie Nathan wore to his first day of work, the visitor’s pass from when
he interviewed with Justice Hollis, and his favorite—the gavel Judge
Stanley had given him when his clerkship ended.

“It’s amazing to see how much junk mail one person can amass in a six
week period,” Ben explained. “I’ve gotten three sweepstakes offers,
about fifty catalogues, a dozen magazine offers, and remember last year
when Ober was watching Miss Teen USA and he called the eight hundred
number to order us applications? I’m still on their mailing list. Listen
to this: ‘Dear Ben Addison. Are you the next Miss Teen USA? Only the
judges know for sure, but you can let the world know about your
participation by ordering from our selection of Official Miss Teen USA
products.'” Looking up from the letter, Ben added, “I think I’m going to
order Ober a Miss Teen USA sports-bra. Once he’s on their mailing list
as a buyer, he’ll never get off.”

“That’s a fine idea,” Nathan said, sitting down on Ben’s bed.

“So, tell me, what else is going on around here?” Ben said, throwing aside the letter.

“Honestly, nothing is different. Eric’s around less because he’s always on deadline.”

“I guess he still hasn’t done the deed?”

“Nope, our fourth roommate still remains a virgin. And he still contends it’s by choice—waiting until marriage and all that.”

“I guess Ober’s still riding him about it?” Ben asked, knowing the answer.

“He’s been riding him since eleventh grade,” Nathan said, smoothing
back his red hair, which he wore cropped short to disguise his receding
hairline. Nathan was the first of the roommates to start losing his hair
and if he was in the room, baldness and hairstyles became forbidden
subjects. Extremely competitive, he didn’t like to lose at anything, and
to him, his retreating hairline undermined his entire appearance,
eclipsing everything from his determined posture to his angular jaw.

“And this new job at the Herald? It seems like Eric’s really happy with it.”

“Are you kidding?” Nathan asked. “Eric’s been flying since he got this position. He thinks he’s king of the world.”

“Do I detect a bit of jealousy?” Ben asked.

“Not at all,” Nathan said. “He spent two years getting a graduate
degree in journalism—I’m happy he’s finally writing about something more
than local yard sales. I just wish he was around more.”

“Don’t give me that,” Ben teased. “You couldn’t give a crap whether
he was around more. You just don’t like the fact that he’s doing better
than you are.”

“First of all, he’s not doing better than me. Second of all, I don’t
mind that he’s doing well, I just wish he’d be a little less selfish
about it.”

“And jealousy rears its ugly visage.”

“You know what I mean,” Nathan said. “Whenever Eric takes on
anything, he becomes obsessed with it. He did the same thing when he was
in grad school, the same thing when he was writing for that literary
magazine, and the same thing when he started at Washington Life. I know
he thinks he’s both Woodward and Bernstein, but I wish he’d pay a little
more attention to his friends. As it is, I don’t think I’ve had one
solid conversation with him since he started this job. He doesn’t have
time for us anymore.”

“You want to know what I think? I think you’re way too competitive. You always have been; you always will be.”

“This has nothing to do with my competitiveness. It has to do with friendship.”

“Give him a break,” Ben said. “He’s still new there. I’m sure he’s just trying to make a good impression.”

“Maybe,” Nathan said as he picked up a pencil from the desk and began to doodle.

“Forget that. How’s life at the State Department?” Ben asked. “Have
you taken over any third world countries in the past few weeks?”

“Alas, no. It’s been pretty much what I thought. My boss has been in
South Africa for the past week, so it’s been slow. But I think they want
to keep me around. I figure they’ll put me in the S/P in a few more
months.”

“S/P?”

“The Secretary’s policy planning staff. They do all the policy work
for the department. People from the S/P usually feed into the major
think tanks.”

“You and a bunch of big brains pondering our existence, huh?”

“Someone’s got to think about running the world,” Nathan said as he
doodled an outline of the United States. “Meanwhile, what about you?
Your first day at the Supreme Court. That’s no mall job.”

“I know,” Ben said as he fidgeted with the clasp of his datebook. “I
just hope I’m okay starting in August instead of July. I felt kind of
lost today.”

“I guess,” Ben said. Walking over to his bookshelf, he began to reorganize his books.

Nathan watched his friend for over a minute. “It’s okay to be nervous,” he finally said. “It is the Supreme Court.”

“I know. It’s just that everyone there is so damn smart. They can
name every Court precedent for the past twenty years; I can name the
original cast of LA Law. That’s not going to get me far.”

Without knocking, Ober walked into the room. “Who died?” he asked, recognizing the anxiety on Ben’s face.

“He’s just worried that the Supreme Court will be intellectually intimidating,” Nathan explained.

“Big deal,” Ober said as he sat on Ben’s bed. “Tell them you can name the entire cast of LA Law. That always impressed me.”

“I’m a dead man,” Ben said as he continued to re-organize his books.

“Ben, stop with the books. You have nothing to worry about,” Nathan
said. “For your whole life, you’ve been at the top of the intellectual
ladder. You went from Columbia, to Yale, to a clerkship with Judge
Stanley. Now you’re working for Justice Hollis, one of the best Justices
on the Supreme Court. Either all of your success is a fluke, or you’re
just stressing. Which do you think is more likely?”

“He’s probably a fluke,” Ober teased.

“Shut up, pinhead,” Nathan scolded. “Ben, you’re the ultimate
over-achiever. You used to alphabetize the crayons in the Crayola 64
box. You researched the aerodynamics of the whiffle ball…”

“Just because you beat me by a measly hundred points on the SAT does not mean you’re smarter,” Ben said.

“The test does not lie,” Nathan said as he walked to the door. “You
may have the street-smarts, but when it comes to unbridled
intellectualism, you can call me master. And Ober, when we were little,
none of us ate the Play-Doh. We used to pretend to eat it, just to watch
you.”